


A Few Minutes

by whiterabbit1613



Series: The October 13 [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fiction, Flash Fiction & Vignettes, General, Literature, M/M, Romance, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiterabbit1613/pseuds/whiterabbit1613
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>John and Sherlock are from BBC's Sherlock, based on the works of Arthur Conan Doyle.</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Few Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> John and Sherlock are from BBC's Sherlock, based on the works of Arthur Conan Doyle.

The October 13: Day 12  
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)  
Prompt: full moon  


 

     John still isn't sure how they ended up on the banks of the Serpentine at two in the morning on a freezing cold evening in October, but here they are. Sherlock is a warm if not entirely comforting presence at his shoulder; his gun is a much more reassuring weight in its holster.

     "What are we waiting for?" John whispers. Sherlock doesn't say anything, just places a finger against John's lips in silent warning. John rolls his eyes but hunkers down to wait it out. It would be a dark night, but the full moon keeps peeking out from between the clouds, and then it might as well be day. 

     Maybe it's just John's imagination, but he thinks Sherlock edges progressively closer throughout their vigil. It's only when he feels Sherlock's hands slip into the pockets of his jeans that John startles and says "Sherlock –" in a tone that would be accusatory, if Sherlock allowed it to be.

     "I forgot my gloves," Sherlock hisses. "It's just for a few minutes, John, relax."

     John can't relax, though, mostly because Sherlock's hands are freezing cold and he feels them keenly through the thin fabric of his pockets. He huddles further into himself, grateful for his jumper. 

     An hour passes. Sherlock has encroached even more upon John's personal space – has invaded every inch of him – re-tying John's scarf so it loops around both their necks, burying his nose against John's cheek. Their legs are tangled together and sitting there, hidden from the world by the night and the shrub serving as their bower, John is finding it harder and harder to keep awake, lulled by the rhythmic sound of Sherlock's heartbeat and the gust of his warm breath across his ear.

     "What are we doing here?" John tries again, still curious after so many hours of quiet. Sherlock smiles; it's only then that John realizes his question could be interpreted in many ways.

     "I'm not sure," Sherlock whispers. "You tell me."

     John thinks for a minute. He's been thinking for a long time; he throws caution to the wind. Their heads turn; their lips meet. John thinks it's strange but not unexpected. Sherlock's lips are cold but his tongue is warm, his kisses tasting like stale coffee but still oddly sweet.

     It's four in the morning; they go home.


End file.
